


whatever a sun will always sing

by Teaotter



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaotter/pseuds/Teaotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old dreams, new opportunities: Kalr Five has a choice to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whatever a sun will always sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadnes_string](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/gifts).



> i carry your heart with me (i carry it in  
> my heart) i am never without it (anywhere  
> i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done  
> by only me is your doing, my darling)  
>                    i fear  
> no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want  
> no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)  
> and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant  
> and whatever a sun will always sing is you
> 
> \- e.e. cummings

It's morning, and Kalr Five is dreaming.

The sun beats down on yellow grass as tall as her waist. From where she stands, the sky is a vast green ocean that swallows up the grass, with waves made of black leapingbugs as long as her finger. They ripple from her feet and rise, only to fall, rise, and fall again with high trilling calls. They scatter into the distance like dust motes on the wind.

She has only a few memories of visiting downwell, but this is one that had haunted her dreams for years. Until she was assigned to Mercy of Kalr; then it stopped, as easily as it began.

She knows why it’s happening again. 

If she turns around, she also knows what she will see: the low brown house with the stony fence that separates it from the road to the quarry; the thick-walled kiln, half-buried in the earth, heat shimmering above it; and her mother, face solemn, with the news that her daughter has failed in her duties. _Soldier_ , the aptitudes say.

For a fleeting moment, she wonders if this is dream or memory, but no. When she turns, her mother is smiling. Proud. She carries the message herself, generous in her jubilation. The family fortunes continue to rise: her daughter has been assigned to the military, as an officer.

It is not what Five remembers, but her response is the same: she begins to weep.

She is still crying when she wakes, dampness seeping into the sleeve of her sleepclothes where she has buried her face in the crook of her elbow. Kalr Seven is pressed tight against her flank, the breathing of her fellow Kalrs soft and soothing in the dim sleeping room. Beyond that is the faint hum of a living ship going about its night. 

If she were a different person, this would be her usual waking period, serving Ship in the night. Half of Kalr serves during ship night, but not those who are senior enough to attend to the Captain.

To attend the Fleet Captain, now that Captain Vel is gone. Whenever the Fleet Captain is well enough to leave Station Medical.

Seven stirs restlessly, and Five realizes that her own breathing is loud now, off-rhythm and frightening in its obviousness. 

She doesn't want to wake anyone with her fears, so she slips from the others and into the corridor. The dream still tugs at her, the past and the present tangled together in her mind. Her mother’s smile was so vivid, as if she could have reached out with her fingers and felt the warmth of her mother’s cheek through her gloves. 

Her mother would want her to take the opportunity that has presented itself. A word to Ship, and it would all be settled before the Fleet Captain awakens. Amaat One has already been promoted; but rumor says that the Fleet Captain has only a single Lieutenant as entourage. Ship needs one more.

A word is all it would take, but Five can’t bring herself to speak it.

She is grateful, too, that Ship seems as loathe to break the silence between them. If Ship doesn't know the precise nature of the dream, Five is sure it knows her well enough to guess at the parameters of her dilemma. There is much comfort in being known, in being (to the best of her ability) just another part of Kalr. Until she decides otherwise, she is just another soldier, and on this ship, there is no need for speech.

The lights here are dimmed for the crew's sake, but Ship brightens them softly down the corridor. It isn't a command, but a request, though Five would follow either one. 

The decade room is empty when she arrives, the lights barely brighter than the ones in the corridor. Still, Five knows every inch of the cramped space, even half-awake as she is. Her eyes track to the displays that show that Ship has started the water heating to a low temperature, better for coneflower tisane than what passes for tea. Ship has also pushed the lowest-most storage drawer ajar, enough to be seen, but not so much that it couldn't be ignored.

Five knows the contents of that drawer; she packed it herself. A porcelain tea set, barely as old as she is. Each piece is hand-made, though it would take a careful eye to see it, and hand-painted with the yellow grass of her mother’s homeworld. Light pours through them like water, delicate and scalding all at once. They were a birthing-gift to her mother, passed down to Five on the day she left home. They are, sometimes, a reminder of the dreams she failed to carry.

They are also a beautifully functional tea set. The cups are not quite round; imperfect to the eye, but more pleasing to the hand. They fit, the better for not being the shape one might expect. The set would make a collector proud, if any knew it existed.

Five's hands tremble slightly as she unwraps one of the cups. The golden grasses bend around the gentle curve in waves, their painted stems slightly raised against the smooth porcelain. She sets the coneflowers to brew; a pungent wave of earthy sweetness rises with the steam as the water blooms the dried petals.

Opportunity does not present itself often, but neither does happiness. What are her mother’s dreams worth, if she doesn't want to carry them?

The lights in the room slowly dim as the tisane steeps; not quite dark enough for sleep, but enough to suggest it whenever she wishes.

There is a scuff of unsteady footsteps at the door to the decade room, and Five turns to find Kalr Nine blinking blearily at her. “Ship said you had a bad dream.”

Five lifts a shoulder at the not-quite question, in a not-quite shrug. She isn't ready to talk yet. 

Nine stumbles over to settle into the chair beside her, then drapes herself bonelessly across Five's shoulder. “You're warm.”

The other woman tucks her face against Five’s neck, sleep-warm and dreamless. Five sips her tisane, the cup folded gently in her hand. If there are imperfections, she cannot see them.

Ship doesn't give unasked-for advice, but nevertheless finds a way to make its opinions clear. And so, this: to be held in human arms, like a girl who cried in her sleep; like the tea cup curled under her gloved fingers, known and cherished for its unexpectedness.

She still has a choice to make, but she understands. It is not her mother’s dreams she needs to carry, but her own.


End file.
